


Like A Lamb To The Slaughter

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's FebuWhump 2021 Oneshots [15]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Crime Fighting, FebuWhump2021, Fights, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Kingpin!Foggy, POV Foggy Nelson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: FebuWhump 2021 Day 15: ["Run. Don't look back,"]Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: [Dragged By The Ankle]The net is closing in on him. His mother's house of cards is wobbling and he's going to get caught up in the middle of it. And when he turns, and sees the cold, red eyes of Daredevil, Foggy knows it's all over.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: MissMoochy's FebuWhump 2021 Oneshots [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136714
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Like A Lamb To The Slaughter

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write kingpin!Foggy! A few people have written AUs where Foggy has been influenced to a life of crime by his biological mother, Rosalind Sharpe. People call Kingpin!Foggy Franklin Sharpe.

Got to get out. Doesn’t matter where he goes but he’s got to go. He told himself that when he ran out of his apartment with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He told himself that when he flung his cellphone into a dumpster. And he repeated the mantra, _got to go, got to go,_ when he broke into his family’s shop in the middle of the night.

He kept up a steady pace, _step-step-step-rest, step-step-step-rest_. He was managing a rapid limp, dragging his palm along rough brick walls for balance. Not bad for a guy who’d jumped out of a window earlier that night. Granted, it hadn’t been far up...but his ankle throbbed with every step.

* * *

He reached the familiar shop front and tried not to make a mess, jimmying open the door with his screwdriver. He could have broken a window and it would have taken less time, but he honestly felt like he’d caused enough destruction in his life. Soft-hearted. That’s what he was. Or weak, as his mother would say. He sighed. At least, he still knew how to disable the alarm. He’d spent so much time here in his teens. Back when...things were different

There were lockers in the back room and that’s where it was. His insurance. He strode past the counter and the chilled cabinets. He could still smell the wet scent of meat in the air. He’d grown up with it. Of course, as a little boy, he hadn’t known that this shop was a cover. A handy way to launder money and cement Rosalind Sharpe and Edward Nelson as nothing more than innocuous business owners in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d been so blind!

It was risky, keeping the bag here. On his parent’s property. But that was why, as a plan, it worked. Hiding in plain sight, isn’t that what they call it? His mother would never dream that her gullible, obedient son would hide such a valuable asset right under her nose.

He didn’t dare switch the lights on and his phone was currently drowning in a mound of trash bags, so he had no light to guide him.

It was eerie, being in the shop after hours. He’d had to work late in the past, but not like this. Not when shadows crept out from under the counter, and when even his own footsteps seemed to be chasing him.

 _Just get the bag and go,_ he thought. _You’re so close._

And in the kitchen, there would be knives. He could get one to defend himself...from them. He hated killing, had never had the guts for it, but self-preservation is a hell of a drug. 

He was about to head into the back when a clutch of pain gripped his foot. He hung on to the counter, panting. Fucking ankle. His own stupid fault, a deal gone bad. He stopped to catch his breath. And then, he heard it.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps on the linoleum floor. They rang like the peals of a death knell. He slowly turned, clinging to the counter.

The figure was dressed in red so dark it looked black. But Foggy had seen the photographs in the paper, he could recall that shade perfectly. In the photos, the horned cowl had looked cartoonish, goofy. Now, it just looked terrifying. As if the actual devil was sizing him up. Daredevil stood, framed by the open door, blocking the exit.

“I suppose you heard me break in?” Foggy said, aiming for affability. His heart hammered in his ribs. The Devil said nothing but he was listening. Foggy knew that much. “Well, Mr. Daredevil, this is actually my family’s business. So, I’m not breaking in. You can’t break into your own business. I’m part owner, so…”

Oh God, he was advancing. 

Foggy tried to smile.

"If you were looking for a robber who was, uh, interested in running off with the cash register or — or a handful of prosciutto, false alarm, I'm afraid."

The Devil shook his head. He was so close now. "We both know I wasn't looking for a robber. I was looking for you."

There are a lot of things Foggy could have attempted. But they call it fight or flight, not deliberate and hesitate. So, he shoved the Devil in the chest and _ran._ Or, that's what he tried to do. Because that kevlar-coated chest felt as solid as a steel shutter and his hard shove barely made him pause. And when he tried to run — _limp_ — to safety, he barely made it more than a few steps. His ankle still bloomed with pain and it didn't take much to topple him. Daredevil punched him in the back, a hard blow to the shoulder blades and he fell forward like a sack of wet laundry. 

* * *

He lay, winded, and tried to push himself up on his elbows but Daredevil was there, leaning over him. 

Daredevil grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked it like a rope, and pain flared in his scalp. Every nerve ending burned, he was wired in, the Devil was pulling on his threads...

Daredevil said nothing but tightened his grip and slammed Foggy’s head into the floor. The floor rushed to meet him but he couldn’t have stopped it, not with his hair snagged in Daredevil’s fist. He felt something click and a hot wetness spread across his face and he dimly knew that his nose had broken.

“Franklin Sharpe. That’s what you’re calling yourself now?”

“That’s my name, buddy,” Foggy said thickly, feeling syrupy blood drip down his nose and into his mouth.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your friend.”

“So, what are you, then? My jailor?” He said bold despite his fear. Daredevil was behind him, close enough that he could feel soft breath on the back of his neck. “My executioner? Oh, but that’s right! The Devil doesn’t kill, does he? He just hurts you so badly that you _wish_ you were dead!”

“You’ve hurt the city, Sharpe. I’ve come to take you out.”

“Take me out? Are you asking me out on a date or—” He swung his head back on instinct, felt the back of his skull collide with Daredevil's face. Good. Daredevil snarled but Foggy had already stumbled to his feet. They faced each other. 

* * *

It’s like one second, they were standing there, the next, blinding pain in his face. He stumbled, fell back, vision flickering in his eyes. Fuck. The Devil had a good hook. He tossed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and lashed out blindly. He had never been much of a fighter but Rosalind had insisted on him doing a bit of training with one of her many, faceless lackeys. But it was no use, every move he made, the Devil anticipated it. He blocked every hit, then swung his foot, swept Foggy’s legs out from under him. He fell flat on his ass, his back protesting in pain, and flipped over, crawled desperately. _Get to the backroom, get your gun. You can shoot him in the leg and you can get the fuck out._

He crawled on his hands, his useless leg hanging behind him like a tail. The Devil walked behind him, calm steady footsteps and then hands grabbed his ankle — the bad one — and pulled. Foggy screamed, thrashed but the Devil was dragging him backwards and the floor slid beneath him. He clawed at the ground but the Devil's grip was tight, hold leather fingers digging into his bruised, swollen flesh.

He felt his body be flipped over like a burger patty on a griddle. Dust was swimming in the air, disturbed by the Devil’s thudding steps. He found his gaze is locked on those two, huge, boots. One heavy stamp on his face and his cheekbones might shatter. Or maybe he’d put him out of his misery, crush Foggy’s windpipe under his heel.

Daredevil pinned him down, a boot on his chest. The heavy tread dug into his skin and he squirmed but the Devil just pressed harder. “Fair cop,” Foggy spluttered, his voice a wet wheeze in his throat. “If I — had a white — hanky — I’d wave it,”

The Devil cocked his head to the side. “You’re surrendering? You’re not afraid of what I could do to you?”

Foggy laughed raggedly. “I don’t care about myself. I’m dead already.”

“What?” And when Foggy didn’t reply, he ground his heel against his collarbone. The boot had a thick tread, he could feel every hard ridge. Foggy winced, gasped for breath. _“Tell me.”_

“Fucked up a deal,” he whined. “Didn’t mean to. She said she’d send someone.”

“Rosalind Sharpe? Your mother? She’s the real kingpin, isn’t she? The might behind the man,”

So, he knew about the real leader of their little operation. Her days were marked, then. Foggy knew he should care, he should worry for his mother, but a part of him felt savagely smug that she would suffer the same fate, hunted down by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Yeah. Dear old mommy. She told me she’d handle it. Send some men to take me to safety. But they weren’t there to help me. I jumped out of my apartment window. She sent them to me to get rid of the weak link in the chain.”

“She’s having you killed?” And, bizarrely, “Her own son?”

Foggy giggled giddily. “No honour amongst thieves.”

“Were you planning to escape? Leave Clinton?”

“That was the plan. Came here to get my vacation bag. Got it stashed nearby. Money, fake IDs. And my insurance.” he clarified, in answer to the Devil’s quizzical cadence.

“Do you have anybody you could stay with? Friend? Partner?”

He shook his head. “Unattached. But I’m a resourceful kinda guy. I’m good at making friends. I’d find my way...”

“Where’s the bag? It’s in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Take me to it.”

Foggy stared at him, but the Devil watched him back, impassively. Gazing into those blank, red eyes, he wondered how many people have met their fates like this. Seen those awful eyes and just _known_ it was all over.

When he tried to get to his feet, pain shot up his leg and he fell straight back down again.

“Yup, that’s not good,” he hissed. The Devil grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and hauled him up. Foggy yelped, 

“It’s broken,” the Devil told him. How the fuck would he know? But he sounded certain. “But it sounds like a clean break. Get it set properly, try to stay off it. Bit of ice and rest, you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I’ll have plenty of time to recover when I’m getting beaten to a pulp in prison,” he huffed. 

The Devil shook him angrily.

“The bag.”

“Right.” He wanted evidence, didn’t he? Perhaps he was changing his style and it wasn’t enough to beat a crook, and leave him all trussed-up for the cops. He was being more studious now, gathering proof that could actually put these guys away. 

* * *

He had no choice but to walk with him, one arm thrown over the Devil’s broad shoulders. Like a three-legged race. It felt familiar, the shape of his arms and back, the way that their flanks slotted together. Which was stupid — he’d never met this guy before. By keeping his weight off his ankle and leaning heavily on Daredevil, he was able to hobble to the backroom where the staff lockers were kept.

The pain was really starting to get to him, but perhaps the Devil sensed that, because he dropped him down on a chair. “The bag?”

“Not afraid I’m going to run?”

“Run? You can’t even walk.”

“Fair enough. Over there." He gestured to the lockers. "The one at the end. Combination 1977."

He heard the click of the metal door, and then the soft sounds of Daredevil sifting through items and then a faint, triumphant utterance. The Devil hefted the black duffel bag in his arms, and carried it over. He dropped it by Foggy’s feet. 

“So, that’s all you needed to start a new life?”

“Yeah. I guess. So near and yet so far, huh?”

“Where would you go?”

“Somewhere sunny. Get out of this cramped, dirty city. Somewhere bright. Warm. I could grow my hair out again.”

“You used to wear it long.”

Foggy stared. _“What_ did you say?”

The Devil cleared his throat. “You said there was insurance in your bag. You said it like it was something different. Not the IDs, not the money.”

“Yeah. I did say that, didn’t I?” He had nothing to lose. And hey, if Daredevil was going to fight Rosalind, at least Foggy could take some satisfaction in knowing that he’d had a hand in her downfall. “USB. In the side pocket. It’s everything. Everything I could get about what the Nelson-Sharpe family do in Hell's Kitchen. I was good, you know. I was a lawyer. Passed the bar and everything. I got a good nose for sniffing out pertinent information.”

“I’ve got a good nose, too,” Daredevil murmured. He unzipped the side pocket, slipped his fingers inside. Withdrew the silver hard drive. “This it?”

“Yeah.”

He stuck it in a pocket on his costume. “I’m taking her down. Rosalind. I don’t care that she’s your mother, she’s…”

“I know. Fuck it. Give her a good kick in the teeth for me, will you?”

“I’ll try.” The Devil tensed suddenly. His shoulders stiffened, every cell in his body seemed to be on red alert. Foggy found himself holding his breath, wondering what kind of threat could spook such a man. 

“Sirens. In the distance.”

Foggy listened. “Can’t hear anything.”

“They might be coming for you. They might be coming for somebody else. I don’t know.”

Foggy snorted. “Well. Looks like the end of the line. Are you going to cuff me or…?”

“What?”

“For the — the police.”

The Devil didn’t speak. He stood too still, standing over him, red and black like a smear of blood. Finally, he picked up the bag and slung it in Foggy’s lap.

“Run.”

He had to have misheard him. Either that, or it was a sick joke. Did the Devil play with his food? “What?”

“Run. Don’t look back.”

“Daredevil—”

“Just go, Foggy. Get out of here.”

Foggy. He hadn’t been called that in years. A silly nickname that harkened back to his days in college when he thought he was headed to a life as a defence lawyer, that he was really going to help people. A silly nickname...bestowed on him by a very dear friend who he hadn’t seen for about...twelve years... He squinted under the flickering, fluorescent lights. Daredevil stood there, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists at his sides. There was something so familiar, it was there... In the shape of his jaw… Or maybe his lips. 

“...Matt?” he whispered. “Matt Murdock?”

“Get out!” Daredevil yelled and Foggy didn’t hesitate, leaping up from the bench with the weight of the duffel hanging by his hip. He turned and legged it, limping frantically, clinging to the wall for balance and leaving Daredevil and Hell’s Kitchen far behind.


End file.
